


The Holler

by d3anstiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Disturbing Themes, Horror, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 14:12:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d3anstiel/pseuds/d3anstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of a succession of grisly homicides in the woods of East Tennessee, Dean, Sam, and a newly human Castiel find themselves venturing into the dirty south to uncover the cause behind these murders— which may turn out to be closer to home than they’d imagined. Meanwhile, Castiel struggles with his humanity and the strange tension that occupies the distance between Dean and himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Holler

**Author's Note:**

> Set immediately following the season eight finale. Big thanks to Jan and Aly.

 

In the summer, John Hartsell’s field turns a dull brown, blades of grass stiff like bony digits trying to clutch at the adamant sun. The crops are practically nonexistent, but John and the old men who sit on his porch every Sunday evening thank the good Lord for what they have, even if the corn and the beans are suffocating in the dry soil; the unseasonably hot May has done nothing to hinder the voices that carry through the windows of churches to mingle with the stillness of the dead pastures, John’s lazy baritone among them.

At 73, John has long since stopped concerning himself with the sporadic ups and downs of East Tennessee weather. A relatively calm and patient man, he sits on the back stoop and watches the thunderheads in the distance. No point in making himself sick over some dried-up vegetables; not when Bill May from down at the flower shop just buried his wife, not when the nice woman who cleans the cemetery every weekend was just diagnosed with lung cancer.

The rain will come when it comes.

 

* * *

 

The rotten downtown of Paint Creek is as desolate as ever on the afternoon of May 15th. It’s a Wednesday, which means that the general populace has crammed itself into the small church on West Bullen for the youth and fellowship services.

John has chosen not to attend the former on this particular afternoon, opting instead to amble along main street in search of any open shops that will sell him some seeds; his spring corn crop is done for, having been reduced to a wilting mass along the southernmost rows of his field.

Despite the failure, his unwavering optimism has led him here. He hopes to begin planting again in a few weeks, even if he has to dredge up the remains of his first attempt in order to start fresh. His father always told him, when he was little and clad in dirt-caked overalls, that it doesn’t pay to be pessimistic about farming.

At the end of the street, the doors of Gosnell’s Feed and Seed hang wide open, a sign in the window declaring that _the air conditioning has been repaired, come on in!_  John makes a beeline for the store’s entrance, reaching into his left back pocket to grab his wallet and pulling his handkerchief from the other.

Just as he crosses the threshold, he is hit with a mercifully cool blast of air. He raises his kerchief slowly, coughing into the red paisley as the smell of chicken feed and fertilizer assaults his nostrils— a familiar but unwelcome stench. _Goddamn heat’s made it worse_ , he figures, and prays for a pain in his rickety knees that will signal a coming rain.

The nearest display houses an assortment of cherry blossoms and orchids, and John steps toward it as he waits for a salesperson of some sort to make themselves known. He studies the blooms, thinking idly that he doesn’t understand flowers; doesn’t understand why someone would spend money to make a garden pretty when there are acres of wildflowers to be reaped.

“John!” a voice calls from somewhere behind him, and John turns to see Herb Gosnell wiping dirty hands on the apron that clings to his portly frame. “I’m surprised you ain’t down at the church with everybody else.”

With a slight shrug, John takes a few steps in the direction of where the seed racks stand. “Felt the spirit movin’ me to tend to my fields,” he says in his quiet way, a small, rueful smile tagging at his chapped mouth. “I need some corn— my spring crop fell to shit.”

A sympathetic grimace graces Herb’s face. “I got you, Johnny Boy. You wanna take a look?” he asks, tilting his head toward the seed display.

John nods, looking around at the empty store. Says, “Business is boomin’, huh?”

Herb’s laugh is as parched and bristly as the grass.

 

* * *

 

  
Dinner is comprised of a can of potted meat and a bottle of Pepsi that’s been warming on the windowsill all day. John eats it without a second thought as he watches the news, his good mood lingering even after his stomach is full and the television is playing infomercials.

At midnight, he mutes the television and stands to put his trash in the wastebasket by the sink. Bullfrogs croak and crickets chirp, a chorus of the southern summer that drifts in through the open window. The cicadas will join them soon enough, John thinks, and he anticipates their arrival, just as he anticipates the heat lightning and the winds that will blow in from Hurricane Gap come late July.

As John walks over to place his plate into the sink, he allows himself a moment to sigh and reflect on his day. He left Gosnell’s at six o’clock, toting several packets of seeds and a pot of the orchids whose purpose he’d wondered at; a frivolous purchase, undoubtedly, but the flowers look almost hopeful where they sit on the windowsill that overlooks the sink.

Outside, the animals fall silent.

John stills.

The noise picks up again, more loudly than before. It’s unsettling to the point that John’s chest seizes with an irrational sort of anxiety as he turns to look out the screen door.

In the distance, something glows.

Several somethings glow, actually; pinpricks of light pervade the inky black of the sky, too large to be stars or airplanes. As John looks closer, he observes that they are moving— _falling_ is the word might use, if he were able to catch hold of a coherent train of thought.

Unthinkingly, he stumbles toward the door and slides it open, his aching joints protesting after the day’s excursions. He nearly trips going down the steps, booted feet struggling to keep up with one another as they carry him into the front yard. His face tilts toward the sky, toward the starbursts that streak across the night.

The wind whips across his cheeks as John watches the lights get closer and closer. He takes a few hurried steps backward, pulse hammering against the inside of his ribs. One arm comes up to shield his face, the other grasping at the empty air behind him.

A moment of complete stillness settles over the fields; not a leaf rustles. The omnipresent line of trees bordering the edges of the pasture looms menacingly over the sudden calm. A lone cricket sings.

And then several dozen comets are crash-landing in John Hartsell’s starving corn crop, setting the dry grass ablaze.

John looks on in fearful awe at the pyre before him. He trembles, rational thought begging him to get inside, to get _away_.

Instead, he watches a mass of bodies rise from the center of this little hell. He thinks of crop circles and the alien movies that play on Chiller Drive-In Theater, and _sweet Jesus, Mary mother of God, our Father who art in Heaven_ —

One of the bodies begins staggering toward him. Unlike the others, who seem to be unaffected by the blaze, this one is almost completely consumed by flames; its mouth is open, hoarse shrieks escaping its throat. As it approaches, John finds himself incapable of movement, left to look on in horror as the alien traipses through the dry grass. The fire has done little to inhibit its mobility— seems, in fact, to have spurred it onward— and it descends upon John Hartsell before he has time to even process the fact that its screaming maw belongs to a human face.

Charred hands wrap around John’s neck, and he makes a choked noise, reflexively reaching up to clutch at the thing’s arms. The smell of his own flesh burning reaches his nostrils, and he feels his dinner roil in his stomach, and the heat, the _heat, the heat_ —

His shouts have barely split the night air before his throat is reduced to ashes.

 

* * *

 

A number of miles away, Dean Winchester is panicking.

He brackets Sam’s sweating back with one arm, the other moving to his brother’s slack face to gingerly shake him into awareness. Sam’s mouth gapes slightly, sucking huge, wet breaths that have Dean’s chest twinging in fear. He looks _god-awful_ , the yellowish pallor of his skin glinting in the light cast by the angels that fall around them.

“Don’t look so hot, Sammy,” Dean manages, voice quavering, and _this isn’t fuckin’ happening, I got here in time, I got him_ out—

The other man stirs, eyes slitted against the glow of the sky, and Dean allows himself to breathe as his brother reaches up to grasp at his arms. “‘M okay, Dean,” Sam says. His voice is small, hoarse, but stable enough that Dean sighs in relief. “I’m okay, let’s get—”

Dean nods. “Yeah. Yeah, we’ll get out of here.” He stands, grabbing Sam’s hand and gently pulling him to an upright position.

Wincing, Sam gets to his feet, his knees visibly trembling. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and looks around himself. “So, Cas,” he begins. “I mean, is he really—”

Dean opens the passenger door. “I don’t know,” is his answer, given as his eyes meet anything but Sam’s own. “I guess. Let’s just—” he cuts himself off, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s not going go be able to process this any time soon, and they have a lot more

( _former_ )

angels to worry about than just Cas. They need to get to the bunker, need to make sure that Kevin hasn’t been hurt, need to do anything but just _stand here_ while Heaven in its entirety begins to roam the Earth like something out of a bad horror flick.

“Dean.”

Dean shakes his head and leaves his subconscious to stew. “We gotta get back,” he tells his brother, who is trying and failing to catch his eyes. “Get in.”

 

* * *

 

Kevin, as it turns out, is no more thrilled than anyone else.

They find him crouched in the corner of the bunker’s firing range, face tucked securely into his knees. His eyes are wild, skin washed out, and he looks even worse than they left him. Dean would feel sorry for him, but Sam rushes forward to Mother-Hen before he can even get a word in.

The fact that Sam manages to be more apt at caretaking than Dean even in his less-than-stellar state would be funny if it weren’t so goddamn annoying. Dean has to bite his tongue against a remark as he watches his brother reassure the prophet who cowers on the floor.

“Alarms were going off all over— I didn’t know what to _do_ ,” Kevin says, voice betraying the same panic present in his glassy gaze. He continues only when Sam nods and encourages him to do so. “I didn’t— I mean, you guys were messing with the Gates of Hell, so I didn’t know if something had gone wrong, or…”

“Oh, something went monumentally wrong, all right,” Dean tells him, leaning against the nearest counter. “But Heaven’s what went all Skyfall.”

Kevin looks between the two of them slowly. It takes a moment before he puts two and two together, and Dean rolls his eyes so hard that he nearly sprains himself when the kid’s mouth falls open in shock.

“The angels—”

“—are gone,” Sam finishes for him, giving Dean one of those _are you even capable of compassion_  looks. “They all must have fallen.”

With a sharp intake of breath, Kevin reaches up to run his hand through his hair. “Jesus.” He blinks a few times, and then asks, “How?”

Dean swallows, lightly scuffing the toe of his boot against the floor. Sam turns an expectant gaze upon him, but Dean studies the cracks in the concrete as he answers. “Cas, I think.” Clearing his throat, he attempts to stifle the cold sense of betrayal that settles in his chest. “Metatron was playing him like a harp. The trials didn’t seal Heaven.”

“They emptied it.” Sam nods in understanding, wincing slightly.

The sympathy in that gesture is hard to ignore, but Dean manages to look to Kevin instead. “So, you getting anything from the upstairs at all?” he asks.

Kevin shakes his head and opens his mouth to answer.

A knock sounds from floor above.

The three of them tense immediately; Dean automatically reaches toward Sam, one hand finding his gun as Sam reaches for his own holster. Kevin stands from his place on the floor and presses the flat of his back against the wall.

Dean tips his head toward the stairs, turning off the safety on his gun, and begins moving forward. The other two follow, matching his pace as he begins to ascend the steps two at a time, and Dean considers asking them go stay behind; neither of them are in the best shape to take on a horde of ex-angels or whatever the hell is behind the door.

Apparently able to sense his hesitation, Sam hisses, “ _Go_.”

That’s enough to get him moving again. He can hear Sam’s exasperated huff behind him, but he dismisses it with a wave of his hand as he reaches the landing. Glancing around the living area and the doorway into the dining room, Dean senses no immediate threat, and proceeds toward the entrance.

Another round of knocks falls against the heavy wood of the door. Dean approaches, gun poised, and asks of whomever, of *whatever* is behind the door: “Who’s there?”

A brief silence. And then—

“Castiel,” a voice says from the other side.

Dean’s shoulders sag. From behind him, Kevin sighs in apparent relief and drops whatever weapon he was wielding to the floor. 

“Cas?” Dean asks, because he doesn’t trust his own ears right now.

“Yes,” is the only reply afforded to him, and Dean finds himself loosening the bolt and pulling the door open without any further thought.

A windblown Castiel stands before them, his hair messy and face stricken. He looks from Dean, to Sam, before finally settling on Kevin. “Have any of the others been here?” he asks of the prophet, voice strained in a way that is so indicative of his humanity that it nearly knocks the breath out of Dean.

“No,” Kevin answers as Cas crosses the threshold. “Sam and Dean just caught me up on what’s going on. I’m sor—”

Dean puts a stop to the apology before it has the indecency to make its way out of Kevin’s mouth. “What do you mean, Cas? Did you expect to walk in on a family reunion?”

“I _meant,_ ” Cas begins, glaring at Dean, “that every one of my brothers and sisters have fallen and are undoubtedly blaming you for it.”

“Shit,” Sam curses. “When are we ever not to blame for this kind of thing?”

Dean doesn’t have time for rhetoric. He rounds on Cas, catching the other man’s eyes. “About that— I thought we agreed that big bro was yanking your chain?” He doesn’t put forth any effort to disguise the anger in his voice, but he doesn’t care about sparing feelings at the moment.

“Metatron did this, Dean,” Castiel replies forcefully. “He— he took my grace and completed the spell. I know that I am at fault for trusting him, but—” he pauses, and he’s almost pleading, now, “— I assure you, I didn’t want this to happen.”

“We know, Cas—” Sam starts, but Dean interrupts by taking a step closer to Castiel.

“And yet, here we are,” he says, but his words have lost most of their fervor. “A fuckload of grounded angels who want revenge and a whack-job at home base. Sure seems like your good intentions just keep screwin' with everything."

Jaw tightening, Castiel turns away from Dean, fists clenching by his sides. Dean half expects him to disappear again, to disappear like he always does, but the man across from him remains rooted to the spot. Something sour and spiteful builds in his throat, and, before he can help it, Dean bites out, "Right. Can't just zap out when shit gets hairy, anymore."

Cas spins on his heels, startling them all. His face is a deep scarlet, his eyebrows drawn together in apparent fury, and he is inches from Dean's face within a few seconds. He raises one hand to grab hold of the oldest Winchester's collar, pulling it tight enough to dig into the back of Dean's neck.

"You would throw humanity in my face?" Castiel asks tremulously. "After I've lost _everything?_ "

Dean tries to make his mouth move, shame burning in his stomach. "Cas," he says. "Cas, I didn't-"

He's interrupted by Castiel abruptly releasing him and shoving his way past. Bringing one hand up to massage the raw skin at the back of his neck, Dean watches Cas begin to descend the stairs. Sam and Kevin are silent, and Dean refuses to look at his brother when Castiel has vanished from sight.

Closing his eyes, Dean lets out a sharp breath. "God _damnit_."

 


End file.
